


Tenenbaum

by georgianablythe16



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgianablythe16/pseuds/georgianablythe16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She likes to walk at night. Likes to be alone with her thoughts. But the strange new man that's taken up her nightly hide-out might just convince her that being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be. Captain Swan AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're a bitter kind

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be a one shot but it kept getting bigger and bigger, so I split it into two parts. I will post the second part soon! This is also my attempt to get back into writing fanfiction. Let me know what you think!

 

Emma has a penchant for walking. An affinity for the way the street lamps cast their fevered glow across the pavement, across her worn out soles. A love for the way her steps echo across the empty, darkened streets.

She has a penchant for walking at night, when the city’s asleep (mostly) and there’s a calmness to it all, to the world.

She walks to escape her own mind, her own self. Leaves her darkened bedroom and her lifeless apartment behind, where her only company is the old desk lamp on her bedside table (the black one that’s broken so it only ever points skyward and a bit to the left), the hum of the refrigerator, and the sound of the moths jetting into the weathered panes of her bedroom window, trying in all their useless desperation to reach the light (just like her, she thinks).

So she walks. Slips on her old (very old) pair of converse, a wrinkled Boston U sweatshirt that she got from a Goodwill three blocks over, and a bright orange scarf (foster home hand-me-downs never the most stylish) before she sidles out the door, keys jingling in her pocket, and meets that mid-October chill head on.

She knows that most twenty-year-old females as small as her wouldn’t be caught dead walking the streets of Big, Bad, Boston at night, but she can handle herself. She’s been alone her whole life, for-real-alone since seventeen, and her life was never easy. Riddled with potholes and massive chasms it was, so yeah, she can handle herself just fine. (Being a bail bonds person who knows just where to hit a creep so hard that he’s on the ground before he can even think about all the things he wants to do to her doesn’t hurt either).

Even so, she’s always got some pepper spray on her, or her old, rusted pocket knife. Just in case.

But on this particular autumn night she doesn’t have to worry, because the streets are empty, completely dead. Almost eerie in their quietness.

She’d be on edge if she didn’t know these streets like the back of her hand. She walks them nearly every night, knows the amount of cracks in the pavement between her apartment complex and the skeevy drugstore on the corner (forty-six), from drugstore to her favorite park (one hundred and forty three), from entrance of park to her favorite bench, the one that looks over the duck pond and is missing the third plank in the seat (seventy-four).

(She knows this place, but knowing it doesn’t make it a home).

By the time she reaches the park the wind has picked up, blowing her long, blonde hair across her face, obscuring her vision ever couple of seconds or so.

She considers heading back to the apartment, calling it a night and binging on Oreos (red velvet) and Netflix ( _New Girl_ ), but she hasn’t been to the park in weeks and she misses her little bench. Misses the ducks and the big willow tree that sits a bit to the right, the one that has “Stephen and Shelbi ‘08” carved into the trunk.

She misses the quietness of the place because it’s a different kind of quiet. A nearly unnamable solitude that she feels when she’s there. And though she’s been alone her entire life she still finds herself seeking out the real kind of alone. The kind where she can sit and think and not hear the sounds of happiness that usually surrounds her. The sounds of families and couples in love, the sounds of laughter and stolen kisses following her as she walks down the streets of the city.

She’s free from those sounds at night, and she figures it’s because the night is for the lonely. The night is for her.

She’s never seen another person at her bench at night, never seen anything moving and breathing other than the ducks, but tonight seems to be a night for all things new, because there, sitting on _her_ bench, is a man.

When she first sees him she mistakes him for one-half of a happy couple. She can’t see the other side of the bench from her initial viewpoint but he’s got his right arm slung over the top of the as if he’s pulling someone closer (or making one _very_ overrated and cheesy move).

Her stomach plummets at the sight because though she knows that during the day this park and her bench are both hotspots for happy couples (Stephen and Shelbi can attest to _that)_ it was always her lonely reprise for the night. The place she could go and not be constantly reminded of just how alone she really was.

She’s about to back away, not wanting to be made a point of conversation for the couple (“Did you see that girl? All alone, poor thing.”) when she steps none too gracefully on a pile of freshly fallen (freshly dead, she means) leaves, alerting the stranger (singular) to her presence.

His head turns quickly at the noise, and she sees immediately that he’s alone. She can’t, however, see the expression on his face because like the idiot she is she forgot her glasses back in her apartment, probably twisted in her comforter or lying underneath her nightstand. All she can see is the way he relaxes at the sight of her, probably checking her off as some harmless young woman, frail and scared, of no danger to him. The thought makes her scoff.

“Can I help you, lass?” He calls out to her, his voice accented, and English, and deep. It’s the kind of voice that should record audio books, and not just the good kinds either, but textbooks, and cookbooks, and fucking IKEA instruction manuals or some shit because it’s _that_ good.

But she doesn’t have the time nor the patience to think about how nice her name would sound rolling off his tongue because right now she’s too busy being angry.

“Uh yeah, that’s my bench.” She says taking two steps forward and crossing her arms, staring him down even if the details of his face are still blurry and she can’t quite make out exactly where his eyes are.

He stares at her in silence for what feels like an eternity, not responding and not moving and it’s starting to make her nervous because seriously, what the fuck was she thinking? This guy could be a drug dealer or a rapist or a murderer and here she is challenging him for a stupid bench in the middle of a darkened park in fucking Boston for Christ’s sake.

She starts eyeing the surrounding area, trying to plan her best escape route when he finally breaks the silence with a sigh.

“Listen, lass, I’m having a nearly preposterously shitty day and I usually come to this bench for my lunch break but I needed some extra time here. Could we just…share? I promise I won’t try to talk to you or bother you in any way, I just—” He sighs again. “I just need this right now.”

Emma has always been one to trust her gut. It’s the best defense mechanism a human being can have, and it’s helped her get out of a multitude of sticky situations in her life. Usually, a strange man alone in a park at night would immediately send warning bells off in her head but right now her mind in silent, completely blank. She’s not getting any creepy vibes from the guy, despite the inherently creepy situation, so she decides on a whim to trust him. She keeps her hand in her pocket, though, fingers fiddling with her pepper spray.

She just nods in response to his plea before making her way across the dew-soaked grass, taking the opposite side of the bench as him and pulling her legs to her chest as she directs her attention to the calm body of water in front of her.

She’d be lying if she said she didn’t sneak a few glances over at her companion because she did, especially when she discovered how unbelievably attractive he was.

Coal-black hair, a bit long and lightly tousled. A fine dusting of scruff along his cheeks and jawline. Wearing a pair of jeans, converse (almost as beat up as her own), along with a simple blue t-shirt, even though it’s like forty degrees out and he’s got to be freezing. He looks about her age, maybe a few years older.

He catches her gaze eventually, locking eyes with her and through the dim light of the street lamp above their heads she can tell just how blue the irises are, almost like the ocean.

“I’m Killian.” He says, holding his hand out for her to take and usually she’d just get up and leave by this point but there’s something about the earnestness of his gaze that’s got her reaching for his hand.

His only hand as it turns out, Emma noticing the absence of his left while reaching for his right. She stares at it awkwardly for a second too long before blushing horribly and meeting his eyes once more, feeling like the most insensitive moron on the planet.

“Emma.” She says eventually, pulling her hand back instantly from his own and ignoring the weird buzzing feeling that she gets from the slight contact.

He hums at her response and turns his gaze back to the pond, his right hand engulfing the stump of his left, almost like someone would do when lacing his or her fingers together.

Emma follows suit and directs her attention back to the scenery before her, watching as a couple of ducks waddle lazily across the shore. It isn’t until she sees a swan gliding gently across the water’s surface that she lets out a squeak of surprise and delight, a smile overtaking her face immediately.

The man--Killian’s--head swivels toward her, and she can sense the movement but she doesn’t turn to meet his gaze, slightly embarrassed by her involuntary reaction to seeing the creature. She can see in her peripheral vision that he follows her line of sight, finding the swan and then turning back to her.

Emma’s cheeks are red from embarrassment, which is stupid really because she doesn’t know this man, will never see him again and yet she feels like a silly child. It’s these thoughts that pull her from the wooden seat below as she rises up on unsteady feet, her shoes now soaked through from the dampness of the ground.

She doesn’t say anything to him as she leaves, just crosses her arms and walks away, head down. She swears she hears some sort of noise or remark or sigh as she’s leaving, but she chalks it up to the rustling of the leaves and the pounding of her own heart.

* * *

 

She avoids the park and her bench for three weeks straight. Venturing to other parts of the city, hoping desperately that her prolonged absence will suddenly make it so her bench is free again, always free and waiting for her.

As October fades into November she finds her mood dipping drastically. She knows it’ll stay that way until February ends and March begins. Because the days that lie between November 1st and March 1st are the most holiday-filled, the most love-filled, and the most happiness-filled, at least for the majority of the world. For her, those days just remind her of all the days that she’s been alone (twenty years worth of them).

On November 13th she gets a nasty comment from one of her skips that sends her spiraling down the hate cycle. Self-loathing, well that’s an all too common affliction for her, and the best way to get it out of her system is to walk. To breath in the cold night air, the kind that makes her lungs ache.

She’s so entrenched in her own thoughts that she just lets her feet wander, lets them take her where they need to go. That’s how she winds up back at the duck pond and back at the bench. And that’s how she finds herself once again in the company of Killian.

He doesn’t notice her at first, only glances up as she’s about to sit down.

He smiles up at her lightly, no teeth, just his lips stretched skyward (she thinks he looks kind of handsome like that.) (She immediately punts that thought far, far away. Across the park, across the states, straight into outer space.)

“Hello, lass. Fancy seeing you here again.”

“Are you stalking me?” She asks, blurts it out in a half joking manner but there’s an underlying seriousness there.

He looks shocked at first, eyes wide, but then he looks properly ashamed, cheeks tinted red. He scratches behind his ear, gazing out at the pond before responding.

“Uh, no, I just—” He clears his throat and Emma notices that he’s wearing some proper late fall clothing this time around. Thick sweater and jacket, a pair of jeans and combat boots, even a soft gray scarf around his neck. No hat, though, and his ears are tinged pink because of it (complementing the soft blush on his cheeks) “I’ve dropped by this bench a couple of nights during the past few weeks. Just enjoyed the scenery really. Maybe hoped only a little bit that a pretty blonde lass would grace my company once more.” He’s still not looking at her and she’s glad for it because she’s not sure what to say, so she settles on nothing, just plopping herself down onto the bench and muttering a soft ouch when she falls a bit into the hole that the missing plank has left.

He’s silent and so is she, and she finds that the company isn’t all that bad, just so long as he keeps his mouth shut.

He doesn’t.

“Why at night?” He asks after a few minutes, his head tilted slightly to the left as he looks at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you come here at night?” He clarifies, the palm of his hand rubbing against the top of his jeans, nervous tic probably.

“What’s it matter?” She asks, all defenses coming up: brick walls, barbed wire, maybe even a moat if she’s feeling particularly medieval.

He shrugs. “Just curious.”

She doesn’t respond right away, instead twisting the small ring that rests on her middle finger. She’d found it at a thrift store down the street for a penny. It’s a simple piece of jewelry, gold band and a tiny emerald gemstone (fake) in the center. She thought it might match her eyes (it does) so she went for it.

“I like the solitude.” She says finally, keeping her head bent down and her eyes focused on the twinkling gem as it twists, and twists, and twists around her finger.

He chuckles at that.

“What?” She asks, annoyed that he’s laughing at her.

“Nothing, it’s just—” He shakes his head, “I’m kind of ruining the whole point of this,” He gestures to the pond and surrounding park. “Aren’t I?”

She just shrugs, because truthfully she doesn’t care if he stays or not, she’s got enough solitude at her apartment (and anywhere else she goes really).

He nods, but that’s the only response she gets. He’s silent for the next hour, and eventually, she stands up, catching his stare as she’s about to leave.

“See you soon?” He asks like it’s a decided thing that they’ve discussed; that they’ll see one another again.

She finds herself nodding before she can really think it over, and he’s gone by the time she looks up again, his side of the bench looking lonely and cold

* * *

 

 

Killian comes to the bench every night. She knows this because she’s also found herself there every night.

He’s always there first, and she wonders vaguely how long he sits and waits for her to show up because she never comes at the same time.

He usually greets her with a smile and a “ _hello, lass_ ”, occasionally changing it up with an “ _evening, Emma_ ”, but that’s about it. They don’t talk, not really, only commenting on the weather or the cycle of the moon. Or at least, that’s how it used to be until Killian broke the silence for good.

It was a Thursday night; she remembers this because Thursdays are her Fridays. She’s off all weekend, mostly because she makes her own hours and she likes the extra day to sleep in, opting to work longer hours during the week instead of the usual 9-5. She remembers being excited that she had the whole weekend ahead of her, the new season of her favorite show being released on Netflix and she was ready for the break.

She went to the park like always that night, after eating takeout and trying desperately to fall asleep for a quick nap, to no avail. Seeing Killian was a part of her everyday routine, and so even though she was bone tired, she went anyway, donning on some sweats and throwing her hair into a bun, her glasses low on her nose.

“What’s your favorite color, lass?” He had asked after about a half an hour of their normal silence.

“Red.” Emma had said before she could stop herself because it was such a simple question, the kind that everyone gets asked at least two thousand times in a life span.

He had hummed in response, falling silent once more.

“Favorite book?”

“ _Where the Wild Things Are_.” She replied, still not catching onto his game, too tired to even think.

He’d cocked his head at that, a tiny smile on his lips.

“Favorite food?”

“Rocky Road.”

“As in ice cream?”

“No, as in pavement.”

He’d chuckled at that, his blue eyes lighting up, and she’d found herself smiling back, perhaps for the first time ever (damn exhaustion).

“What is this, twenty questions?” She’d asked wiping the smile off her face and trying to plaster on an expression of disinterest or anger even, something to make him stop, because favorite color, favorite book, favorite food is all harmless, but enough harmlessness leads to harm and she’s not trying to get hurt.

“Nope!” He had sad popping the “P” as he’d went, “This is just called Questions, the game where I ask you questions. Works best for bench friends: ages… _twenty_ and up?” He’d framed it like a question, and she knew that he was really asking her how old she is, and she had found that she was only slightly annoyed by this.

“Twenty and up.” She’d said, agreeing, and he had smiled at her answer. “I’m assuming you’re up?”

“Twenty-four is up, right?” He’d said furrowing his brow as if he was actually unsure of the answer.

“Right.” She had replied, smiling back at him lightly, watching in awe as he had grinned. (Full teeth this time.)

* * *

 

By the start of December, she knows that his favorite color is blue, that he loves the ocean and wants to own a boat someday. She knows that he hates scary movies and thunderstorms, loves the night best of all and is a huge fan of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Knows that he’s got an older brother named Liam, an older brother that’s in the navy and is “a better man” than he. (She doubts that). She knows tiny, insignificant things about him. Knows that he works at some bar in Charlestown and that he’s lived in Boston for the better half of a decade. She knows all of this but she doesn’t know his last name or any other personal details. He’s just Killian, her park bench friend.

And he knows her too. Knows that she’s a bail bonds person, knows that she hasn’t been in the city for even a full year yet. He knows that she likes popcorn and The Princess Bride. And he knows that she drinks hot chocolate with a heaping dose of cinnamon on top. He brings her a cup sometimes, says it’s from a diner by his apartment, best hot chocolate this side of the Mississippi. She’s inclined to agree.

They still see one another every night, weekends included and she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t the best part of her day, talking to another human being. They sit right next to each other now, no more of that opposite side of the bench stuff, but they never touch. Ever. No hip to hip, no knees knocking against one another, nothing. The one time Killian touched her, laid his hand on her shoulder while in the middle of a laughing fit, she recoiled from him so violently that he nearly fell forward and off the bench. He apologized for weeks afterward, but Emma always brushed him off. He didn’t need to apologize for her being so fucked up (because touching is something friends do, that lovers do. Touching is letting someone have power over you; it’s giving someone the ability to break you. And she’s broken enough).

It’s never a thing they talk about, their plans to see one another every night. It’s just a silent sort of agreement. Killian is always first to the bench, and the last to leave, never making the move to go, always giving Emma the choice of when to end their time together. Every night he says something along the lines of See you, lass, and she just nods, never acknowledging or confirming.

But she comes back every night, helpless to the call of human company. Of possibly even friendship.

* * *

 

When Christmas Eve and Christmas day come around she doesn’t go to the park, afraid that if she went she’d find an empty bench, find that he has family and friends to spend the holiday with, people that she doesn’t have in her own life. Afraid that she’d find out he’s not as alone as her, and that thought hurts more than she ever thought it could.

* * *

 

On December 26th she makes it to the park by midnight, knowing without a doubt that she’s missed him. She usually comes around by ten or eleven, never this late and there’s no way he would have waited for her.

She curses herself and her shithead of a skip for making her chase him all around the city. She’d caught him in the end, even if it took twelve hours, and she’s beyond tired, but she has to at least try to see Killian, just to wish him a merry late-Christmas.

When the park bench comes into sight she sees him sitting there, bundled up and slightly shaking, she can see from hundreds of feet away that he’s shaking, and that in of itself has her running. Running toward him.

“Killian!” She calls out, and he’s turning toward her before she’s even got his whole name out, a beautiful smile on his face, so big and happy that she’s sure he’ll split his face in half from the enormity of it all.

She slows down as she approaches him, nearly slipping on the slick pavement, but she steadies herself quickly, looking up at his red cheeks, bits of snow clinging to his eyelashes and she’s never seen anything more beautiful than him.

“Happy Christmas, Emma.” He says, pulling something out of his pocket and handing it to her, his hand covered in one solid blue mitten.

“Killian,” She warns, not sure if she should accept whatever he’s gotten her, because they’re not dating, they’re not best friends, they barely know one another and he shouldn’t be getting her a gift (she didn’t get him one, after all).

“Just open it, lass.” He nods encouragingly, still smiling, and she can’t resist smiling back.

She peels the tape off clumsily, her hands cold and her fingers nearly frozen due to the thin pair of gloves she’s got on.

Finally, she reaches the contents of the package, the candy-cane wrapping paper falling to the ground as she stares in awe at what he’s gotten her.

It’s a swan necklace. Cheap metal, thrift shop chain, a fake diamond serving as an eye, but it’s painted a soft white, the beak yellowed with hints of orange, and she knows right away that it’s hand painted. Knows right away that he painted it. (He told her he likes to paint, after all.)

She’s silent, almost embarrassingly so and he kind of shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting for some type of response.

“You don’t have to wear it. I just…that first night you seemed like you really liked that swan and I just thought maybe—maybe you’d like it.” He stutters out, and she looks up to meet his eyes, his brow furrowed and a look of disappointment and apprehension on his face.

He thinks she doesn’t like it. Thinks she doesn’t absolutely love it.

He’s wrong.

She hugs him so tightly she’s sure she’s knocked the breath out of him. Wraps her arms around his middle and squeezes, her face pressed against his chest. It takes a minute for him to respond but he does, his arms going around her back gently, one hand rubbing up and down as he tilts his head downward until his hair tickles the very top of her forehead.

“Thank you.” She mumbles against the rough wool of his coat, and he squeezes her against him a little harder.

“Aye, of course, lass.”

When they separate he insists on helping put the necklace on, tearing his mitten off with his teeth before struggling to unclasp the “damn thing” but he finally does, draping it around her neck (with the help of one of her own hands) where it settles a few inches below her collarbone, right in sight.

She smiles up at him afterward, and they sit and talk for a half hour or so until the cold gets the better of both of them and she heads back to her empty apartment.

She doesn’t take the necklace off. Not ever. Not for anything.

* * *

 On Valentines Day she sprains her ankle. Because yes, of course, she does.

She’s chasing a skip down one of those back alleys in Boston, and because bricks love ice she finds herself sliding and falling, falling hard on her right ankle and she doesn’t even catch her skip.

The doctor at the little walk in clinic a couple streets over tells her to ice it and relax, and that she’ll be out of work for at least a couple of weeks. Tells her to keep all walking to a minimum. Tells her to rest, rest, rest.

Resting means not seeing Killian.

She lies down in bed, her laptop perched on her chest as she watches season after season of one of those comedy shows that she loves. Her fingers fiddling with the necklace that resides right near her heart, and she doesn’t notice it at first but she chips away a bit of the paint on the beak because she’s touching it too much.

She stops fiddling with it then, just holds it until it’s warm to the touch, heating her skin and maybe even her heart (just a little).

* * *

 

Exactly two weeks later Emma finds herself walking to the park as soon as the sun goes down. Wearing loose fitting sweats and her hair in a bun, and even a pair of bright blue earmuffs that she found for two bucks at a thrift shop, sure that Killian would love them.

It’s cold outside, even though it’s the beginning of March, and she finds herself wondering how much longer it’ll be before the sun comes out and warms the whole city up. She loves fall and doesn’t mind winter, but the beginning of spring really cheers her up. Makes her believe in new beginnings and love and other sappy things, if only for a little while.

She’s kicking along a block of ice as she enters the park, making a game of it, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her sweatshirt and her mind endlessly blank. Or, at least she’s trying to make it blank. Trying not to freak out or overthink about seeing Killian again. She’s got butterflies in her stomach that she can’t, and frankly doesn’t want to explain, and she’s scared. More scared than she ever though she possibly could be around Killian. The man who’s gone from complete stranger to friend (maybe even best friend) in such a short amount of time.

She’s scared because what if he didn’t miss her? And she knows it’s dumb, knows that he doesn’t owe her anything like that, doesn’t owe her his feelings, be them kind or not. She just—she’s missed him, missed his company, missed his voice. Missed the way his hair curls right behind his ear and how he’s got that scar on his cheek, pale and barley noticeable in the darkness of night but there all the same. She missed him, and she wants him to have missed her too, maybe because no one’s ever missed her before. No one’s ever cared that much.

By the time the park bench comes into view her block of ice has shattered and scattered all across the pavement, and she’s practically vibrating with worry.

Reluctantly, and with a great amount of talking up she brings her eyesight up and over to the direction, waiting as they adjust to the darkness a bit before zoning in on the lone figure that sits there.

It’s Killian, she knows it even from this far away and she lets out a sigh of relief, a big whoosh of air that’s all too telling and all too confusing.

From this distance she can see that he’s bent over, head in hand. He looks like some Greek god, some statue carved into marble and meant to be placed on a dais somewhere. She smiles to herself, relief flooding her system because he’s _here._ He’s waiting for _her_. And he’s been waiting for her for months now, so it should come as no surprise, and yet it does.

It always surprises her when someone cares.

She’s twenty feet, ten feet, five feet from him when she hears the sniffling. He’s—crying?

“Killian?” She asks, soft and unsure and he doesn’t hear her at first, doesn’t look up, so she repeats herself, calling out his name once more and he looks up at that, hand dropping from his face slowly as his blue eyes meet hers.

“ _Emma._ ” He breathes, says it like a prayer and he’s up and he’s wrapping her in his arms before she can blink, before she can breathe. But now she’s breathing in his air and it feels fresh, tastes sweet, makes her want to bottle it and keep it with her always.

“Killian?” She says once more, and he steps away from her then, taking one, then two steps back, bringing his arms to his sides, his gloved hand sneaking up to wipe at his nose.

“Hi, Emma.” He says on a smile, a weak one, but a smile all the same and she returns it, has to really, her body reacts to his like this, with or without her permission.

“Killian? What’s wrong?” She’s got her head tilted to the right, so confused and she just wants to know why he was crying, why he’s so upset.

He waves his hand, dismissing the question, before he smiles at her once more, grabbing her hand in his and pulling her toward the bench, but she stands still, staunchly ignoring his silent plea for her to let it go.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Killian!” She says it a little too harshly. She knows this. Felt it the moment the words rolled off her tongue and melted into the night air, and his eyes grow dark and his jaw clenches tight.

“It’s me, okay? It’s me!” He shouts it at her, not in a mean way, not in an accusatory way, just lets his temper get the best of him and lets his words ring louder.

“What?” She must look the part of confused puppy dog; head tilted once more, eyes wide.

“I was worried that something had happened to you.” His voice much quieter now, much more subdued. But it’s got an edge of defeat to it. “You don’t show up for two bloody weeks and I have no one to call, no number to reach you by, no address to look up.” He runs his hand through his hair than, tangling the strands and sending them awry, this way and that. “Bloody hell, I don’t even know your last name, Emma!” His voice breaks at the end, his body losing all the fight and he falls down on the bench, face in hand once more.

She doesn’t say anything; shock filling her system, blood running cold, slush in her veins and fire on her skin.

Eventually, she sits down beside him, silent still and he doesn’t raise his head, doesn’t acknowledge her shift in position.

They sit like that for a while, ten, fifteen minutes or so, and it would be awkward but it’s them. It’s Killian and Emma, and they practically live in the awkward, swim in it, so it doesn’t bother them, doesn’t make them uncomfortable.

“Swan.” She says finally, keeps her eyes trained on the pond ahead of them and there’s no life there tonight, no waddling ducks or buzzing insects, no sway of foliage or chirp of birds, just the shuffling of their layers and the symphony of their exhales and inhales.

“This time of year?” He asks, his head rising up to look at the pond where no swan sits this time.

“My last name. It’s Swan.”

It’s a slow thing, the turn of his head and the widening of his eyes, but once his gaze intercepts hers there’s already a smile blooming and it takes up his whole face, makes him look like an advertisement for a dentist’s office or a kid at an amusement park. Makes him look young and happy and she’s so floored that _she_ could do this to _him_.

“Swan,” he says, lets it come out on an exhale, “Emma Swan.” And she’s sure she’s never heard anything better than her name on his lips, all three syllables sounding like a melody as it rolls off his tongue.

His arm comes around her before she can smile back, before she can nod her head or acknowledge the moment and he pulls her into his side, coats sliding together.

He kisses the top of her head and she breathes out, so content she’s sure she’s never actually known what it’s felt like to be this happy.

They sit there for hours, not changing positions, not saying a word, just relishing being together again. Eventually, though she has to get up and go, has to start making her way back because it’s almost three in the morning and she’d rather not be walking back as others are waking up.

She gets up to go but he grabs her hand, makes her turn to face him once more, makes her stare down at him as he sits on the bench, eyes looking up at her with something she can’t quite name.

“Jones. Killian Jones.” He releases her hand the moment the words are out and now she knows what he felt earlier. Knows that he probably felt warm and fuzzy and all kinds of happy inside just from acquirement of such simple knowledge. (She’s sure she’s getting so sappy that she might turn into a Hallmark card if she doesn’t cool it.)

“Jones.” She hums thoughtfully before grinning down at him. “I like it.” She says, laughing when he winks at her.

On the way back home she thinks that maybe the days are getting warmer after all. 

* * *

 

She was scared about what Killian knowing her last name would do to their relationship. Was he going to insist on seeing her more? Was he going to try to contact her outside of their nightly park bench meetings?

In reality, she had nothing to worry about. In fact, him knowing her last name led to nothing more than Emma getting many lessons on the stars.

It started one clear night, when the weather was slightly warmer and she’d been able to wear just a loose sweater and jeans instead of the usual coat and mittens.

The sky was beautiful and she could actually see the stars, an anomaly for Boston.

“There you are, lass.” He said raising his hand and pointing at something above them, a smattering of stars nestled in the void.

“What?” She’d asked, staring at him with her mouth full of the caramel popcorn that he’d brought for them tonight, insisting a while ago that the one thing missing in their nightly meet-ups was food.

“Up there in the sky.” He wasn’t doing the best jobs of clarifying and Emma was utterly bemused.

“What are you talking about Killian?”

He grabbed her hand at that, entwining their fingers together and raising her arm upwards, pointed toward the universe.

“Right there, see? Cygnus. The swan.” He traced the pattern with their joined hands, and for some reason the action made her blush fiercely.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” But he wasn’t looking at the stars anymore, his gaze directed solely at her and Emma would have laughed at the horrible cheesiness of it all if she weren’t currently melting under his gaze.

“Yeah, beautiful.” She agreed, meeting his eyes and knowing what she was doing but not caring one bit.

He _was_ beautiful. Inside and out. 

* * *

 

April brings lots of showers. Which is great for the flowers and the trees and the grass but is not good for the Emma, especially not for the Emma-That-Has-No-Umbrella. The first night that it rains on her walk to the park she shows up at the bench drenched through, approaching Killian with water falling off her lashes and clouding her vision.

He’s up in a beat, scolding her for going out like this but she just shrugs, saying something along the lines of how she can’t miss a night at the park. He smiles softly at that, taking off his coat and draping it around her arms while she holds the umbrella over their heads, the handle still warm from his touch (she grips it tight).

The next time she comes on a rainy night he’s waiting for her with a backpack resting in her spot and she cocks her head at that, raising an eyebrow and he just smirks at her, winking and stepping forward to take her under the shelter of his bright red umbrella.

He moves the backpack out of the way and she takes her seat, looking over at him as he hands her the umbrella and begins to fiddle with the zippers of his bag.

He brings out a coat and a small, cylinder-shaped item, dark blue and heavy.

“Here you are, lass. Your own umbrella.” She takes a hold of the items and looks up at him, confusion marring her features.

“Why do _you_ get the red one?” Is all she can find to say because she’s so floored by this man. So enamored by his kindness that she finds herself at loss for words.

He chuckles, and points to the umbrella in her hand. “Blue to remember me by.” Is all he says and she smiles so wide that she’s sure she’ll never stop.

* * *

 

 She stops.

“England?” It comes out as a whisper, and she can’t quite explain her wet eyes and red cheeks. She’s not sure she’s ever had this visceral, this quick of a reaction to something before.

“Only for a few months, Swan. I’ll be back by August.” Killian’s reaching for her, trying to put his hand on her shoulder and she just—she can’t. Not when he’s leaving. Not when he’s leaving _her._ So she backs away, scoots down the bench and the hurt on his face is nothing like she’s ever seen before. But she’s hurt too. She’s hurt too.

“Why?” Is all she says, looking up from where her hands twine together, in and out in a nervous pattern.

Killian sighs, explains about his “bastard” father’s passing. Tells her that he has to go. Liam’s on active duty and he has to settle all the affairs and whatnot. Tells her that it’s going to take awhile, that he doesn’t want to go, but he’s the only one left. Tells her he’ll come back. That of course he will, that they’ll be back to their normal nightly bench chats in no time.

She wants to believe him.

She can’t.

“Emma?” He asks, because she’s been silent for too long. She hasn’t met his stare yet, still watches as her fingers turn white from the grip she has on them.

“I have to go.” She says finally, stands up and says no more, doesn’t look his way as she turns to leave.

“Emma, _wait_!” He grabs her elbow and she wishes that she was strong enough to just keep walking, to jerk her arm from his grasp and start sprinting, but she’s not, and the agony she hears in his voice makes her want to sob. So she freezes in her spot, lets him turn her gently until she’s facing him, looking up at his wide blue eyes and his face that holds nothing but hurt and confusion.

“Swan, please, I promise I’ll come back. I don’t have any other option and—” He sighs, looks at her with pleading eyes and she feels like she might crumble, break apart and shatter, like ice against pavement and maybe someone’s kicking her along, playing a game with her, because she feels so helpless right now. “I’ll come back, Emma. I’m not leaving you, this isn’t—this isn’t goodbye.”

She wants to believe him. Wants to believe him so bad it _hurts_. And she knows that he’s never done anything to make her doubt him, but she also knows that no one’s ever come back for her, and she can’t trust Killian because she’s trusted before and everyone let her down. Foster family after foster family, friend after friend, and now he’s leaving her too, and she can’t deal with that.

She starts to pull away, her elbow slipping from her grasp and she’s shaking her head as tears pour down her face and she’s not looking at him anymore, can’t really. She hears his stuttered “please” and she knows that if she would look at him she’d break, she’d believe him or wait for him or something equally as self-destructive and she cannot do that. Cannot be that weak.

“I’m sorry.” She mutters before she turns and walks away, her vision blurred and her nose running. She’s shaking and she can’t explain why, but it feels like she’s going to fall apart any second and she just needs to get back to her apartment, to break down there, fall into her sheets and just let her mind shut down.

When she finally makes it back she has grass clinging to her shoes and she fell down once, tripped over a crack that she should have remembered was there, and her head feels like it’s full of cotton.

So she showers and cries and lays down in her bed, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and wishing that it was Killian’s voice instead.


	2. I love you so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the reviews and I'm so glad you all liked it! I'm not as happy with this chapter but I hope you all enjoy it just the same! Also if you're interested, the title of this story is taken from a song by the Paper Kites by the same name. It's an amazing song and you should definitely listen to it! Please review if you're able :)

She doesn’t go back to the bench. Not for a second does she consider it, and she knows that Killian said he wasn’t leaving for a couple more weeks, not until May, but she can’t see him all the while knowing that he’s just going to leave.

So she throws herself into work and Netflix, tries to figure out how to make peanut butter frosting and chocolate cupcakes, but she doesn’t have the right utensils and her frosting is crunchy and her cupcakes burnt.

She tries to forget him, but it’s nearly impossible, so when her lease is up at the end of April she decides that maybe Boston isn’t for her anymore and she packs up her feeble belongings, bids her apartment and the city goodbye, and heads to Maine. Figures that it’s just far enough from Boston that she won’t have to ever run into him again.

She looks for apartments in Portland, but they’re all out of her price range so she decides to move thirty minutes north of the city, to a town called Storybrooke, so she can still chase skips in Portland, but actually afford to eat too.

She’s there a week before she breaks down and goes for a nightly walk again, making her way from street lamp to street lamp, bench to bench before sitting down on a hill that overlooks the harbor. The ocean reminds her of him and she misses him so much that she can barely breathe from it all. She cries for the first time in weeks that night, wishing that Killian were right there beside her to dry her tears.

* * *

She meets David and Mary Margaret Nolan her second month in Storybrooke. The sheriff and his schoolteacher wife make the perfect couple and the inferno of jealousy that sweeps over her because of their love is unexpected and seemingly unprompted.

They’re wonderful people, kind and generous and they bring her into their group of family and friends with ease. She feels safe with them, with everyone who she surrounds herself with here, but she doesn’t feel whole. Never feels complete, and she might know why but she doesn’t want to admit it to herself.

So she goes on, day after day, month after month, year after year, fitting in but always hanging back. Never giving herself fully to anything.

* * *

 

She’s twenty-four when she sees him again.

Walking to _Granny’s,_ her go-to lunch destination and the only place that makes grilled cheese just the way she likes it, when she sees him through the window.

He’s seated at the bar, head down and she knows it’s him the first instant she catches sight of black hair and stubbled cheeks.

Her breath leaves her in one, sharp _woosh_ and then she’s backing away, hitting the lamppost behind her as she tries to get as far away from him as possible. She can’t tear her gaze away from him though, can’t believe what’s happening. Did he follow her here? How would he even know where to look?

She’s about to make a run for it for real when his gaze turns out the window, sweeps over her lazily before his eyes widen and he’s halfway out of his seat in a second. She can see him mouth her name, talking to himself more than her she’s sure, but it’s the only thing she needs to turn and run.

Well maybe not _run_ , but walk very, _very_ fast? Sure.

She should have known it wouldn’t have mattered.

She can hear him calling her name as he exits _Granny’s_ and she’s not going to turn around, not at all, just keeps facing forward until she feels a hand wrap around her elbow and she’s thrown back in time. Thrown back to one of the worst nights of her life.

This time though, she actually has the strength to rip her arm from his grasp, turning around to face him with a glare.

She doesn’t know what she was expecting to see when she finally looked at him ( _really_ looked at him), but confusion was not ever an option. His brow is furrowed and his eyes filled with a look of bewilderment.

“Emma?” He asks head tilted slightly to the left and she finally gets a good look at the new and improved Killian Jones. All leather jacket and black jeans. Black boots and black shirt. He’s like the night embodied and she’s sure he’s never looked this handsome.

“Are you stalking me?” She asks and there’s fire in her voice. Fire in her lungs as she looks at the face of the man she never thought she’d see again.

His eyes turn cold at her question, “No lass, I am not stalking you.” He says it through clenched teeth and she’s sure she’s never seen him this angry.

“Well then what _are_ you doing here?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and Emma notices that he’s got a prosthetic now. Which makes her wonder why he never got one before.

“I live here, lass. Moved last week.”

Emma’s face turns red and hot and she’s stuttering through her words, confused and on the verge of tears because this place was her escape from him, from the memory of him and now he’s here.

“Why?” She asks, eyes welling up.

He sighs, scratches blindly behind his ear, and the move hits her like a physical blow. Still the same old, Killian.

“I had nowhere else to go.”

“And you didn’t know I lived here?” She doesn’t believe him. Not for a second. There’s no way this is just a coincidence.

“No, Emma. I didn’t know you lived here.” There’s a touch of hurt in his voice and she instantly feels bad, but she takes that feeling and throws it far, _far_ away. She shouldn’t feel bad. She’s done nothing wrong.

“This is too much, this can’t be— _you_ can’t be—” She takes a deep breath. 1, 2, 3, relax, and then she’s pushing her hands forward, palms facing him, and she starts to back away. Like he’s a wild animal or a predator of some sort. “Just—I have to go.”

She doesn’t give him time to reply before she’s out of the street and heading down to the docks, needing to cool down and calm her racing heart.

* * *

 

She sees Killian around town periodically, but she doesn’t approach him, never thinks to strike up a conversation ( _scratch that_. She thinks about it. Thinks about it all the time, but she’ll never do it. Can’t do it.) And she doesn’t tell anyone about their history, doesn’t let anyone in on the fact that they know each other ( _knew_ each other). So when Mary Margaret, and Ruby, and Tink keep bringing him up, telling her about how he owns a bar down by the docks, about how he’s broody and all alone, she just has to carefully place her _hmm’s_ and _ahh’s_ so as to not give anything away.

It works until it doesn’t. And it’s all Killian’s fault.

She’s having breakfast with David, Mary Margaret, and the new deputy, Graham when Killian walks into _Granny’s_. His eyes settling on her instantly and he can’t seem to tear his gaze away because the staring lasts for a few seconds before he coughs, the tips of his ears blushed red, as he heads toward the counter.

Mary Margaret sees the whole thing, and Emma would throttle Killian, really she would, if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s currently sitting with two members of Storybrooke’s finest. So instead she settles for ignoring the entire situation, and Mary Margaret’s pointed stares. The tactic works until David and Graham bid goodbye, and she’s left alone with the most life-meddling (but goodhearted) person in existence.

“You know him, don’t you?” Is the first thing the other woman asks.

“Who?” Emma asks nonchalantly, taking a sip of her coffee.

Mary Margaret gives her a pointed look, “That new guy. You know, the one who just walked in here and stared you down with one of the most sickeningly sweet looks of affection I’ve ever seen, and _I’m_ one-half of _‘Storybrooke’s Fairytale Couple.’”_

Emma points her finger at the other woman, “You’ve earned that title and you know it.”

Mary Margaret sighs, “Come on, Emma, spill.”

“Okay, yes, I know him,” Emma says, letting her cup land not so gracefully on the table before she glares back at Mary Margaret. “I knew him when I was younger and we were friends of a sort, that’s it, nothing more, no unrequited love here.”

Mary Margaret hums, taking a sip of her own tea, “Maybe not for you.” Is all she says, before getting up from her seat, biding Emma goodbye, and heading off to work.

* * *

 

Emma still hates Christmas. Or doesn’t hate it really, but she definitely doesn’t get excited about the holiday. Not like Mary Margaret and David and everyone else in this small, ridiculous town seem to. But the Nolan’s host a big Christmas Eve party every year and every year she’s dragged into going, no matter how many times she feigns sick.

Mary Margaret and David practically invite the whole town to the event, so really she should have been expecting that Killian would be there.

She’s standing in the corner (by the alcohol, her oldest and longest friend) when she’s assaulted by the scent of leather, and the sea, and rum, and she knows immediately who it is.

“Hello, Swan.” He says, his eyebrows raised and a smirk on his face and Emma rolls her eyes at his flirtatious tone.

She just nods her head in response and he sighs, going around her to pour himself a drink, at which point Emma takes the opportunity to fully take him in. He’s wearing his leather jacket once more, but underneath it, he has on a cheesy, bright red Christmas themed button up and she lets out a laugh at the sight, awed that this man can wear a leather jacket and combat boots and pair it with a shirt that has little Rudolph’s, snowflakes, and Santa faces on it.

He looks over at her when she laughs, raises his eyebrows once more and Emma tries desperately to hide her smile.

“Something funny, Swan?”

“N-no,” she coughs, trying once more not to laugh, “I just—I really like your shirt.”

His eyes light up at the teasing edge to her voice and when he smiles she thinks that he still looks beautiful like that, lips stretched skyward, teeth on full display.

He’s about to say something else, she’s sure, probably something flirty and maybe even a little heartfelt, but before he can she catches sight of Mary Margaret across the room, the other woman smiling and giving Emma a thumbs up and suddenly Emma feels sick.

“I have to go.” She says suddenly, making a beeline for the door, and Killian doesn’t follow, doesn’t try to come after her, still respecting her decision to leave, but he does call her name once, like some sort of plea. Emma just elects to ignore it.

She’s out the door in record time, and back to her apartment before her tears can fall.

* * *

 

She can’t sleep. And maybe it’s because it’s Christmas day and she’s all alone, or maybe it’s because she’s unnerved by the whole Killian thing, but nonetheless she can’t sleep, and the only logical thing to do is walk.

So she bundles herself up, throwing on some leggings under a pair of jeans (for extra warmth), her favorite winter jacket, and a gray beanie before grabbing her apartment keys and heading out the door.

She’s not walked much since Boston, so she’s a little unsure of where to go, but it’s cold and it’s snowing and it’s quiet and she feels at peace so she just lets herself wander.

It takes about a half hour for her to reach the marina and the wood underneath her feet is covered in patches of ice, but she just skirts around the edges until she gets to one of the benches that overlooks the harbor, settling herself down under the yellowed glow of the lanterns that hang from the worn wooden posts.

She’s scuffing her feet against the wood and maybe that’s why she doesn’t hear the footsteps, or maybe her mind just chose to tune them out, add a bit of adventure to her dull life.

“Hello, lass.” Is the first thing she hears from him, his voice startling her so badly that she lets out a little shriek.

“What the hell?!” She shoots back at him, her face plastered into a scowl.

“Sorry, Swan,” Killian says, but he doesn’t seem sorry. He especially doesn’t seem sorry when he claims the seat next to her. “Didn’t know you were the type to easily spook.”

“What are you doing?” She asks as he settles himself in, one arm slung over the top of the bench.

“I believe that I’m sitting.” He looks around the marina as if he’s trying to find the answer to her question, before nodding. “Aye, I’m sitting. What are _you_ doing?”

“Don’t be an ass.” She huffs out.  
He shrugs, “It’s in my nature, darling.”

They sit in silence for a while, Emma not deigning to respond. Eventually, she turns to him, watching in amusement as his too-long hair sweeps across his forehead with the wind, flecks of snow settling into the dark locks and catching in his scruff. He finds her gaze soon enough, his blue eyes nearly glowing under the light of the lantern and the smile that he gives her, so tentative and sweet, warms her heart so much that she’s sure he’ll be able to feel the heat coming off of it.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” She asks, let’s the question come out in a whisper, but he hears it all the same, and he scratches behind his ear, her favorite tic of his and she smiles at the gesture.

“I—uh—I didn’t. I come her every night, kind of my spot, really.”

“Why?”

He quirks his eyebrow up at her before shrugging, “I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

She feels her heart sink a bit, dipping down into her stomach because she shouldn’t have expected that he’d sit out here for her, he doesn’t owe her that, but she’d hoped. (Constant theme of her life, hoping.)

“I just enjoy the scenery, really. Maybe hope only a little bit that a pretty blonde lass will grace my company.” He winks at her and she can’t stop the laugh that comes next. Because the words are so familiar, and this is so familiar, _Killian_ is so familiar.

They settle into the silence comfortably, just remembering how it feels to _be_ with one another. Eventually, though, Emma’s too cold to continue their little reunion, and with a bit of reluctance, she finds herself rising from her seat and turning toward her bench companion.

“It’s getting late, I—uh, I better go.” She says, tossing her head back just a bit, signaling her exit path.

Killian nods, not quite looking at her, not at first at least, but his gaze eventually meets her own. “See you soon?” He asks like it’s a decided thing.

She just nods, silent but affirmative, before turning and heading back to her empty apartment.

Empty, sure, but at least the refrigerator doesn’t hum.

* * *

 

She doesn’t go back to the bench the next night. Or the night after that. Or even the night after that.

She’s trying to avoid him, doesn’t want to give in that easily. On the fourth night however, she’s just lonely enough that a quick trip to the bench doesn’t seem too self-defeating.

He’s there, of course, and she didn’t really expect anything different, but she didn’t want to hope. She’s sick of hoping.

When he sees her he smiles so wide that she can’t help but smile back, big and wide and it’s been so long since she’s smiled like this that her face starts to hurt almost instantly, the muscles so unused, so untested.

“Fancy seeing you here, Swan!” He says it jovially, with fervor, before patting the seat next to here, requesting that she sit.

She takes the seat, making sure to place herself far from touching distance. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have much else to do, so.” She shrugs, running her hands up and down her red leather-clad arms.

He hums, soft and low, his gaze turning toward the harbor and away from her.

“Still a bail bondsperson?” He asks after some time.

She nods, “Yeah. I do most of my work down in Portland, but the drive’s getting to be a little too much now. David offered me a job on the force last week, but I haven’t decided if I want to take it yet or not.”

“You should take it.” He says immediately, no hint of hesitation or sarcasm in his voice. “If you think you might want to do it, that is. You’d be bloody brilliant as an officer of the law.”

She blushes at his compliment before shrugging, choosing not to show him how much his vote of confidence means to her.

“How about you, still bartending?”

He chuckles a bit at that, “Aye, still bartending, only now I have all the fantastic responsibilities that come along with ownership of said bar.”

“Yeah I heard you were a big shot owner now.”

He chuckles at that, “Aye, proud owner of _The Jolly Roger,_ which resides just a few blocks over from here actually.”

Emma hums, “Convenient.”

“Aye.”

They sit in silence for the rest of the night, and it’s not awkward, and it’s not uncomfortable, but it is the happiest Emma can remember being in a long, _long_ time.

* * *

 

She doesn’t ask him about England. Doesn’t ask him about his brother or his deceased father. Doesn’t ask him about exes or current flings. And he doesn’t ask her about the four years they’ve been apart. They don’t talk about personal things, and it’s just like it used to be. Bench friends, nothing more.

Emma’s determined to keep their relationship from evolving into something more. She doesn’t let him touch her, not even a simple arm around shoulder, because that’s getting her dangerously close to how they used to be, when he would kiss the top of her head, and pull her snug into his side. She can’t let it get back to that, because that broke her in the end.

And everything’s fine. Everything’s _great_ , in fact, until Killian doesn’t show up to the bench. One night turns into two turns into three, and by night four Emma’s more than a little worried. She knows that he’s alive, has walked past the bar and saw that it’s closed and opened at regular times, she just doesn’t see Killian.

So on the fourth night of his mysterious disappearance Emma decides that she’s had enough. That she needs to make sure he’s okay, because this is definitely not normal.

The bar’s closed when she gets to it, but she knows that he’s there. He told her he lived above the bar weeks ago, said he’s got a little studio apartment that works for him (doesn’t mention that it’s _only_ him. Keeps that bit to himself. Self-deprecation doesn’t look great in the moonlight, or the daylight, or any type of light, really.)

She doesn’t bother knocking, knows he won’t hear, so instead she jimmies the lock, fingers crossed and prayers sent skyward that David’s not out patrolling.

The bar’s dark, and empty, but it smells sweet, homey and warm. She bumps into a few stools on her way to the set of stairs that she can barley see in the darkness, making her way up the worn wood with little effort being put into keeping her steps quiet.

“Killian!” She calls out at one point, a sort of whisper-yell, but he must hear her all the same because a door swings open suddenly, yellow light sweeping over the floorboards, flooding the staircase with its glow.

“What are you doing, Swan?” He asks, his voice coming out in an exasperated tone.

She ignores him until she reaches the top of the steps, crossing her arms over her chest and staring him down until he beckons for her to come inside.

She nods her thanks and heads in, immediately assaulted by the strong scent of rum that seems to take ownership of the space. He’s got a few empty bottles of the stuff littering the floor around his coffee table, and she looks at him in surprise.

“What can I do for you, Swan?” He asks, as he makes his way to the couch in the corner, flopping down on it unceremoniously, seemingly undeterred by the mess that surrounds him.

“Where have you been?” She asks, arms still crossed, and a blatant fury settled over her features. He’s skipped their bench meet-ups to drink himself dry, all alone in this apartment?

“Here.” He says, gesturing to the space with his hand and prosthetic-less stump.

“Why?”

“Bad day.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She’s angry _and_ confused now because he’s not making any sense and she just wants to know what’s wrong. Wants to know if she did something wrong.

“Bad week, really.” He says by way of answer, crossing his legs, one over the other as he reaches for a nearly empty bottle of rum, taking a swift swig before grimacing and staring her straight on.

“If you don’t want to see me anymore then just say it, Killian, don’t be a coward.” She spits it out, venom in her voice and venom in her lungs and she’s nothing like a swan now, just a snake that’s been provoked.

He clenches his jaw at that, stands up and takes three steps forward, 1,2,3 before he’s staring her down, fury vibrating off him.

“Oh, _I’m_ the coward?” He says through clenched teeth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” And she’s repeating herself so much now that she starts to wonder if she’s one of those wind-up dolls, forever fated to go through the same shit, day in and day out, year after year.

He looks away from her for a second, trying to regain his composure no doubt.

“I’m not a coward, Emma.”

“Then tell me what’s wrong, Killian!”

“Bloody everything!” He yells back at her, and he turns away from her, breathing hard. “Everything, Swan, everything.”

“What are you talking about, Killian?!” She’s yelling now too, angry and so, so confused and he’s not making sense, probably too drunk off the cheap rum that litters his floor.

He turns and glares back at her, “Oh would you like a list, is that it Swan? Would you like me to recite to you the entire litany of reasons why my life is so very fucked up?” His voice has a mocking edge to it that surprises her, and she’s never seen him this way, never seen him like this. “How about the fact that I have one bloody hand because I loved the wrong woman at the wrong time, and her husband didn’t take too kindly to that? Or perhaps how I’m alone because every family member I once had is long gone, dead and buried? Or, and I’m sure you’ll like this one, that four years ago I lost my best friend because she couldn’t trust me enough to come back to her?” He’s breathing heavily now, chest heaving with effort. “And you want to know the best part, Swan?”

She doesn’t respond, just stares at him wide-eyed and still confused, unable to keep up with all of the pent-up secrets he seems to be finally letting go.

“The best part, or maybe the worst, depends on the bloke, but the best part is that I was in love with her then, and I never stopped loving her, and I still love her, even though she doesn’t want bloody anything to do with me. Hell, I can’t even touch you without you recoiling from me like I’ve hit you or something!” He collapses back onto the couch, head in hand and she thinks he might be crying but he looks up at her eventually, eyes dry but filled with agony.

“And I know that we’re not supposed to talk about anything this personal, because it’s too much for you, and I respect that, but my brother died three years ago this week, and I find that I don’t bloody much care for trying to suppress anything at the moment.” He looks away from her when she doesn’t respond, leaning back against the couch, head thrown back and eyes closed.

“Just go, Swan.” He says it on a whisper, lets it come out fast and low, and she doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, so she does the one thing she’s always been good at; she runs.

* * *

 

Emma takes the job on the force, let’s her hours build up, volunteers for every night parole because she needs to keep her mind off Killian, and she can’t do that when she’s not busy.

She hasn’t seen him in weeks (three to be exact), hasn’t talked to him since his big confession. She’d be lying if she didn’t say she feels awful, because she does. She had no idea that Liam had died. Had no idea about the backstory as to why he lost his hand. She had no idea about any of that because it’s the painful stuff, and they never talked about the painful stuff.

She finds she misses him rather quickly, just like before. But she doesn’t know where to go from here, doesn’t know how to make it better.

After three straight weeks of night patrol, David tells her she’s got to take some time off, banning her from the nightly runs for two weeks, and it’s one of the worse things that could happen at this point in the game, because everything’s worse at night. Alone in her empty apartment, where she can’t find a reason not to see him.

She caves on night two, wandering down to the bench even though she knows he won’t be there. And she’s right, he’s not there, but she sits there all the same, wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin atop her knees, gazing out onto the water because she’s got nowhere else to look (her mind’s a disaster and she’s not sure she should go searching for anything in there).

She leaves after a couple of hours, and everything looks cold to her.

* * *

 

Emma goes back to the bench just about every night. Killian never shows up. But the weather’s getting warmer and she feels more at peace there than back at her empty apartment so she just keeps coming. For two weeks now she’s not stopped coming.

Tonight, however, she probably should have prepared better.

It starts pouring the minute she sits down on the bench, and she felt the humidity, felt the moisture in the air but she shrugged past her little blue umbrella sitting on her kitchen table, pulling on a coat instead and hoping for the best.

She’s an idiot.

She pulls the hood up on her little jacket but it does little to keep the rain off her face, and she sits there for maybe ten minutes before deciding that sitting alone on a bench is pathetic enough without adding “sitting alone in the pouring rain” to the list.

She’s about to get up when the rain suddenly stops, or at least stops pouring on top of her head, but it’s still falling all around her, and it takes her a split second to look up and see the underside of a big red umbrella, before a body slides into the space next to her.

“You never learn, do you, lass?” He’s got a smile on his face, and she notices that his scruff is a bit more overgrown than he usually likes but she pushes that thought aside before she practically throws herself into his arms.

He lets out an “oomph” of surprise before his arms come around her just as fiercely, his umbrella dropping to the ground, and his nose buried into the hair that rests right in the crook of her neck.

She might be choking him, what with her arms so tightly wound around his neck and her hands gripping the back of his damp gray t-shirt so securely, but he doesn’t complain, says nothing that would make her stop.

“I’m sorry, Swan.” He whispers against her neck and she shakes her head fiercely at that, wanting him to know that he has nothing to apologize for.

She pulls back eventually, and he stares at her in shock, his blue eyes confused and his brow furrowed.

“Emma—” he starts to say, but she cuts him off with her lips against his, and it takes him a breath of a moment to respond, before he’s crushing her body against his own, his left arm wrapped around her waist and his hand cupping the back of her head as he practically devours her mouth.

There’s the clashing of teeth and the nipping of lips and it’s messy and unfiltered and there’s rain soaking through both of their clothes but she can’t really find the urge to care because she’s kissing him, finally kissing Killian Jones, and it feels like it’s been years in the making (has been).

Eventually, he pulls back from her, hand coming down to skim the side of her face, fingers caressing her jaw and she blushes red from the reverence that she sees in his eyes.

“Let’s get you inside, shall we, love?” He whispers it against her lips before he kisses her once more, brief and gentle, and any man might use the “let’s get you inside” line as a way to get into a girl’s pants but she can tell just by the tone of his voice and the look on his face that Killian truly just wants to get her out of the rain.

She also doesn’t miss the “love” part. Nope. Does not miss that at all.

She nods in acquiescence to his request and then she’s up from the bench, watching as he bends down to pick up the fallen umbrella, and he’s about to raise it above their heads when Emma grabs it, switching sides and claiming his right hand in her own. The smile he gives her warms her up better than any pair of dry clothes could.

* * *

 

He brings her back to his apartment, and the moment she steps inside she notices how much different the place looks. No empty rum bottles on the floor. No scattered pillows or empty take-out boxes. In fact, the place is spotless, everything in order and it smells sweeter, less like alcohol and more like vanilla.

He kisses her hand before extracting his own from her grasp, smiling at her as he heads over to a door that must be his bathroom, exiting with a towel in his hand that he passes along to her.

As she dries herself off, Killian rummages through a couple of dresser drawers, bringing out a pair of worn gray sweatpants and a dark blue sweater that she knows will be too big on her, but she’d rather have her sleeves hanging down past her hands than stay another minute in her wet clothes.

She heads to the bathroom to change, rolling up the legs of the sweatpants and pushing up the sleeves of his sweater before venturing back out into the rest of the apartment to find that Killian’s changed as well, loose jeans and soft gray sweater having replaced his own damp clothing.

She ducks her head as she makes her way over to the couch where he sits, suddenly nervous and all too shy. They still have much to talk about, and she’s trying to talk herself up, get herself ready to spill some of her deepest secrets, because it’s only fair that he knows, especially now that he’s told her some of his own.

“Killian, I—” She says as she sits down next to him, giving him some space in case he’s changed his mind in the last five minutes, but he doesn’t give her time to speak, pulling her into the warm cocoon of his arms.

“Shh, Swan, just—give us a minute, hm? Then we can talk.” She nods in response, burying her face against the soft cotton on his chest, breathing in his scent and feeling more at home than she’s ever felt.

Eventually, they pull apart a bit, and Killian takes a moment to go and make them both a mug of hot chocolate. The night is slipping into early morning, but they continue to just sit and enjoy one another’s company.

She breaks at 2 a.m.

“I was 17 when I met Neal.”

He looks at her in surprise, worry clouding his eyes. “Emma, you don’t have to, love.”

She smiles up at him in reassurance, grasping his hand between both of her own. “Yes, I do.”

He nods after a few seconds, letting her know he’s on board, he wants to know everything, wants to know _her_ , and she feels so light she could fly.

She spends the next half hour telling him about Neal, about how she thought she could trust him because he was a lost boy, just like she was a lost girl, that he’d been through the foster system just like she had. Been abandoned just like she had, and even though he’d been years older than her, she’d fallen for him anyway, loved him anyway, because after years and years of foster homes and families that didn’t want her she finally had someone to call her own. But then he met someone new, another girl that was prettier, and less broken than she was, and so she moved to Boston, started fresh and was determined not to let anyone in again, not to let herself break again.

Then she met Killian, and he made her feel whole, and not because he completed her, or because he filled in her missing pieces, but because he made her believe that about herself, made her love herself simply because she could feel how much he loved her.

She tells him all of this while the shower drips, and the lights flicker above their heads, and the floorboards creak under their weight.

“I left all those years ago because I was scared you were going to break me, just like Neal did, but I broke myself by leaving you.” She’s got tears in her eyes and on her cheeks and she doesn’t know if she can go on, but he pulls her against him, kisses the top of her head and tells her it’s alright, everything’s okay now, they found each other again.

“I love you.” She says, after they’ve sat in silence for what feels like hours, and she must have startled him because she feels him jolt against her at the sound of her confession. “I think I have all along.”

He tips her chin up at that, his mouth descending on hers hot and fast and hard and she can’t breathe except to breathe him in.

He picks her up and brings her over to the bed in the corner of the room, lays her down with grace and reverence and she could sob at the love that she sees in his eyes.

“I love you, Emma Swan.” He whispers against her neck, against her cheek, against her lips, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

She believes him.

* * *

 

When he takes her (his) sweater off he finds a swan necklace, resting beautifully between her breasts and the near-sob that escapes him at that almost breaks her heart, but when he kisses her, all fierce determination and fiery love it’s put back together again.

* * *

 

She wakes up in his arms, their legs tangled together, bare skin against bare skin and he’s greeted her thousands of times before. A “good evening, Swan” here, and a “hello, lass” there, but when he whispers “good morning, love” against the skin of her neck she’s sure she’s never heard a greeting so sweet.

* * *

 

She moves in with him a few months later, and there’s no old desk lamp on the bedside table (not even a black one that’s broken so it only ever points skyward and a bit to the left). And there’s no humming coming from the refrigerator, no moths jetting into the windows above their bed. But the floors are creaky, and the shower drips, and sometimes the lights flicker.

She doesn’t mind though, because it feels like home, so long as he’s there.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on tumblr! georgianablythe16


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